


But Thou Art Not Forgot

by r_grayjoy



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Community: daily_deviant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-04
Updated: 2010-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-12 11:14:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/124268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r_grayjoy/pseuds/r_grayjoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A reunion takes place shortly after the Azkaban prison break of 1996.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Thou Art Not Forgot

**Author's Note:**

> Written for daily_deviant in January 2007 for Death Eaters month.
> 
> Contains a slight bit of rough sex and suggestions of sadomasochism. No non-con here.

  
**But Thou Art Not Forgot**   


He stands in the doorway and gazes across the dimly lit room, eyes fixed on the silhouette of the man who stands gazing out the open window in turn. The warm light from the blazing hearth provides a few details about the object of his scrutiny; his memory supplies the rest. The figure at the window is of average height, neither tall nor short. There is nothing remarkable about his build. His clothing is nondescript. His face, on the other hand, is extraordinary.

Like that of an angel or a god, his face is perfect in its proportions and symmetry, the ideal subject of every romantic poet and painter. Wide, blue eyes, full lips, and flawless skin are framed by soft, golden locks that fall into delicate curls about his chin and shoulders. The very picture of innocence, it is wholly incongruous that this fair man was once the most inventive creator of Dark spells designed to inflict indescribable pain and torment, which he used gleefully and without mercy. The watcher recalls that it is this very dichotomy that first drew him to the younger man, made him yearn to solve him like some sort of mystery or puzzle until every facet of his complex character had been revealed.

At last the man at the window seems to sense eyes on his back, and he turns. "Augustus," he simply says, surprise evident in his tone.

"Antonin," Rookwood greets in return, and is privately astonished that the deep, resonant timbre of his voice does not waver, does not reveal his anxiety at this meeting.

They stare at each other in silence for a moment before Dolohov notes, "It's been a long time."

"Fourteen years," Rookwood agrees. They are stating the blatantly obvious, neither of them daring to say more.

"I had wondered whether you were among those of us who made it out," Dolohov says. "I had hoped… But it happened so quickly, and it was too chaotic for me to be sure…"

"Yes. I believe all of the old faithful are free again."

Looking away suddenly, Antonin seems transfixed by the fire as he says, "I saw when they brought you in. It was… I had hoped that you wouldn't be caught. I thought that maybe, as long as you were free, I could be… content. When I saw you…" He breaks off with a shudder.

"It was that damned coward Karkaroff, he sold so many of us out," Augustus says passionately, his fist clenching at his side. "But I'd have gladly turned myself in if only it could have secured your release."

Antonin shakes his head. "It couldn't. There was nothing you could have done."

"Antonin, I tried. I tried calling in favors, pulling strings within the Ministry, but the evidence was too damning. I hated myself for being so utterly ineffective…" At last his voice breaks as more than a decade of guilt and helplessness are evoked.

Antonin moves toward him then, and Augustus finally gets a good look at his long-ago lover. Azkaban has clearly taken its toll, but Antonin is still beautiful. It makes Augustus abruptly conscious of the deep lines that have formed on his own face over the years, of the silver that has crept into the black of his neatly-trimmed hair and beard, and he wonders how he must appear to the Antonin now.

Coming to a stop before him, Antonin hesitantly lifts one hand and cards his fingers through Augustus' hair. "We are here now," he says softly. Antonin touches him, and speaks to him in that intimate tone, and just like that it's as though it has been mere days rather than years since they were last together.

Augustus raises his hands to cup Antonin's lovely face and he leans down reverently to place a gentle kiss on his lover's lips. Antonin, however, is not satisfied with such a chaste gesture, and he opens his mouth to Augustus, licks his lower lip, sucks his tongue into his mouth greedily. Antonin's arms snake around his neck, their bodies come together, and Augustus _remembers_.

He remembers the taste of his lover, the texture of his hair, and the sound of his hot breath rasping in his ear. He remembers the places to touch Antonin to make him sigh or moan. He remembers the way their bodies lock together as though they are designed for this. He remembers nights spent together following masked raids, high on adrenaline and passion, and believing they have all the time in the world. His cock swells, as though it remembers as well, and Augustus murmurs his lover's name, "Antonin, Antonin," over and over again between urgent kisses.

"Augustus…" Antonin groans as Rookwood kisses a trail down the younger man's neck, "Too long…" At that, Antonin begins frantically tearing at the fastenings of Augustus' robes, and it takes only an instant for Augustus to respond in kind. He desperately wants to feel his lover without the layers of fabric that now separate them, to mold their bodies together and seek the pleasure that has been denied them these many years. They weave an irregular trail through the room, shedding layers of clothing and overturning décor heedlessly, at last coming to a stop before the open window, nude in the moonlight.

"Merlin, Antonin, you are beautiful still," Augustus breathes as he takes in the other man's slender form and jutting prick.

With a shake of his head, Antonin replies, "You were always the more handsome of the two of us; that has not changed."

Augustus disagrees, but to say anything more would be a needless waste of time and breath. Instead he leans into Antonin, burying his face in his lover's neck and pinning him to the window frame. Coming together with a surge of heat and magic, they both cry out sharply at the contact. Trapped between their stomachs, Augustus' cock throbs with need, and it requires all his restraint to prevent himself from rutting madly against Antonin like a wild beast. He feels a fleeting moment of sadness that they lack the patience to treat this reunion with the care that it deserves, before he recalls that they will have time to reacquaint themselves properly later.

"I want you, Antonin," he growls into his lover's neck, just below his ear.

"Then take me," Antonin replies, then turns in the circle of Augustus' arms and grips the window frame tightly. It would be impossible to make the invitation any more clear.

Wordlessly, Augustus turns to retrieve his wand from the swath of clothing that now adorns the floor, but Antonin stops him with a firm hand on his arm. "No," Antonin says. "We don't need it. I want to feel you."

Yet Augustus hesitates. "It's been a long time, Antonin. I don't wish to hurt you."

"Please, Augustus," Antonin pleads. "Don't hold back."

It seems that Azkaban has not changed Antonin so greatly. Augustus recalls that his lover often preferred a touch -- or more than a touch -- of pain mingled with his pleasure. Antonin always claimed that it let him know he was alive, and made him feel intimately connected to the world and the magic within it. Privately Augustus has always suspected that only a man who understands such pleasures could be capable of administering pain so masterfully as Antonin Dolohov.

Without further protest, Augustus uses the copious fluid that is seeping from his cock to slick himself as much as possible, then bends Antonin forward. Angling himself from memory, he pushes into Antonin, pulls out halfway, pushes in again, until he is fully encased in Antonin's welcoming warmth. Antonin grunts loudly, but Augustus knows better than to ask if he is all right.

He is a mature man, well into his fifth decade of life, yet Augustus nearly spends like an inexperienced boy at the initial sensation of Antonin surrounding him, so long it has been. Breathing deeply, he takes a moment to compose himself, then he _thrusts_. And again. And again. He drives himself deep into his partner in a wordless, fierce expression of a decade and a half of sorrow and longing. Antonin pushes back eagerly and holds onto the window sill with a white-knuckled grip lest he be thrown out.

After a few moments Augustus pauses, and Antonin releases the sill and leans back into him. As Antonin's head comes to rest on his shoulder, a tremor runs through them both. Antonin's hand slips down to encircle his cock, and Augustus' own hand follows. His arm slides over Antonin's, his hand closes over his partner's, and they begin to work Antonin's length with a shared grip as Augustus resumes thrusting up into his lover from behind.

It is somewhat awkward and inelegant, but intensely intimate, and Augustus knows he cannot last long. He tries to hold off for his partner's sake, but all too soon he is grunting harshly, convulsing wildly as his climax overtakes him. The world is dark and he thinks he has gone blind, or perhaps mad, yet Augustus keeps his grip on Antonin with the last of his strength and sanity. Fortunately neither of them is ever far behind the other, and it is only another moment before Augustus feels his lover stiffen. Hot fluid spills over their hands in thick spurts, and Antonin shouts his release out the window and into the night.

As his pulse slows, Augustus slips out of his partner and down to the floor. Antonin immediately follows him, wrapping his arms around Augustus and encouraging him to lean back into his embrace. Resting against Antonin, Augustus does not care that the floor is hard, or that the January air creeping in through the open window is cold; Antonin is warm, and he is content.

Antonin's quietly ardent voice in his ear brings him back to the present. "I never forgot you, Augustus," he says. "The Dementors tried to strip away all that was warm and good from my mind, but I never let them have you."

"Nor I you, Antonin," Augustus replies. "Nor I you." He knows then that, though a few years have passed and they are older than they were, it is not too late to recapture what they once had. They are alive and free, together again in the service of the Dark Lord, a part of things much greater than either of them could ever be individually. He is wrapped in his lover's arms, and all is as it should be once more.

* * * * *

Rookwood and Dolohov do not realize that they will have less than six months together before the Dark Lord's and Lucius Malfoy's underestimation of a group of teenagers leads to their capture at the Department of Mysteries and their subsequent return to Azkaban. For now, that they are together is enough.

 _'T is said that absence conquers love;  
But oh believe it not!  
I've tried, alas! its power to prove,  
But thou art not forgot._  
\-- Frederick William Thomas


End file.
